Empty Streets
by saucykate
Summary: [Akuroku slash] On a lonely, dreary night, Axel dreams [and drinks] alone.


Title: Empty Streets

Author: Kate / Kaeda

Rating: PG?

Pairing: Akuroku

Summary: On a lonely, dreary night, Axel dreams (and drinks) alone.

Warnings: angsty, depressing, and weird. Sort of not really spoilers for the beginning of KH2.

Disclaimer: Axel, Roxas, the World That Never Was, and everything else in this fic belongs to Square Enix. If they don't want us to write fic, then why do they make all of their male characters in love with each other? Seriously.

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The streetlamp above Axel's head is dying slowly, flickering and buzzing, and the rain has turned into pale mist that spreads across the empty street in the city on the World That Never Was. He is drunk and tired and cold, leaning against the metal pole and looking up at stars that he can barely see.

When a familiar figure materializes out of the mists in front of him, he's not drunk enough to think that it could possibly be real. Roxas's hood is down and his eyes are dark with some suppressed emotion. The Roxas in his dreams always looks like this, passionate and angry, the way he'd looked when he'd left, two months before. It is as though the image was burned into his mind for eternity, those blue eyes filled with emotion, when since the beginning they'd been calm and empty.

It is when he'd realizes that he is in love with him, all over again.

But he is Nobody.

The Roxas before him now is quiet, takes the gloved hand offered and presses it to his cheek. In his misty half-stupor, Axel swears he can almost feel warmth through the leather. So many words left unsaid are running through his head.

"I loved you-"

But what was love when one had no heart?

"Come back to me-"

But how can he miss Roxas when he is a soulless husk?

"I would do anything for you-"

But sacrifice isn't nearly as impressive when one doesn't have anything to lose. The figure of Roxas is already dimming when, with an impressive 'pop', the streetlamp above Axel's head burns out in a tiny explosion. The street corner is plunged into darkness, and spurs him into moving from leaning insolently against the lamp post to starting the long trek back to the castle.

A hand touches his wrist, gently at first, but persistent. In the beginning he thinks it's just another dream, but then the hand grabs him and pulls him into an alley, and he realizes that dreams aren't normally so aggressive. The alley is dark as well and he squints hopelessly into the shadows, hoping to see a face or a silhouette or -something- that would prove that he's not just going insane, that someone really is there.

But the shadows have no answers.

The hands are trailing their way up his chest, tickling his ribs slightly, and he is suddenly nervous. Almost all the dangerous denizens of the city wouldn't dare attack an Organization member - the pecking order had been established long before he'd even stepped into the shoes of number VIII - and so the biggest question is, if this isn't a figment of his imagination, then -who is it-?

He reaches out and clutches at air. He moves his hands down and encounters spiked hair, a round face. He traces his fingers across a familiar-feeling cheek, across lips that he's imagined to perfection. It can't be...

"Roxas," he whispers like a caress.

"Don't say it," the other says, his voice not Roxas's familiar young tone, cold and distrustful, but a huskier timbre that speaks of knowledge and power and things to come. "If you don't say it, it won't break the spell."

He wants to scream "what spell!", wants to take Roxas and run as far away from this place as they both can get, but he knows deep in his nonexistent heart that this is an unrealistic goal and instead he continues to feel along the figure he can't see, gently caressing Roxas's cheek. He longs to take his glove off, but feels as though this would also 'break the spell', whatever that meant.

Of course, he's still a little drunk, too, so it's entirely possible he's snug in his own bed, asleep, and dreaming of being cold and wet and uncomfortable in a back alley talking to a Roxas who won't let him see his face. His dreams have certainly been dreary enough lately that this could be one of them.

But it's not. It's real, and he finally believes this when a warm mouth suddenly presses against his, gentle yet insistent. He gives in immediately to the kiss, surprised at its innocence, but Roxas has always been both naive and hopelessly dangerous. Chaste kisses in an alley right out of a rapist's wet dream are just his style. He holds the touch for a moment before coaxing Roxas's lips apart to deepen the kiss. When Roxas pulls away, Axel is not entirely surprised.

"You left me," he says plaintively.

"Shut up," Roxas replies. "If you keep talking, you'll distract me." His hands find Axel's again and he holds them firmly, as though Axel's the one in danger of slipping away. "I wanted to come back one last time."

Axel wants to say-

"I would do anything for you."

"Come back to the Organization. Even if we -are- on the wrong side, I'll protect you."

"I love you."

But instead, he simply whispers again, like it will change everything, "Roxas."

The touch abruptly vanishes. The street light snaps back on with blinding brilliance and Axel reels against the sudden overload of his senses. When the green blurs are finally clearing from his eyesight, he looks around the alley. It's empty, just like his dreams. Roxas is gone, has left weeks before, and Axel is not the man he once was.

The wind whispers, 'find me', but the red-haired man stumbling home no longer knows whether or not he should listen.

end


End file.
